


Four of us

by NeverAndAlways



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 17:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverAndAlways/pseuds/NeverAndAlways
Summary: Apologies for the short chapter, everyone. Midterm exams snuck up on me.





	1. Chapter 1

"It's raining harder."

W.D., Tom, and Barnum are sitting in the tent just outside the ring, playing Whist. W.D. casts a glance at the canvas ceiling, which has started to drip.

"Hailing, actually," says Anne from the shadows. She's pulled aside a flap of the tent. She watches the downpour for a moment, then lets go of the flap and turns around. "Barnum, you may as well cancel the show. It's not worth it, not in this weather." she puts her hands on her hips. There's no answer. "Barnum?"

The ringmaster doesn't seem to hear. He sits slouched in his chair; all his attention is fixed on one thing, and it isn't the cards. Phillip is training in the ring with one of the acrobats. The acrobat is seated astride her own white horse, while Phillip holds the lead of a dapple gray. He's too pregnant to comfortably ride in a saddle, but he's been just fine training this way. As Phillip walks his horse in a slow circle, leaning slightly back to center the weight of his belly, P.T. narrows his eyes in suspicion.

_"Barnum."_

That got his attention. He snaps his head around in the direction of Anne's voice.

"Yes?"

"I _said,_ it's hailing now. You might as well cancel the show, no one's going to be out in this weather."

P.T. sighs and puts down his cards. "I suppose you're right. I was hoping the rain would let up...I'll go talk to O'Malley. Wait for me, would you?" he says distractedly to Tom and W.D., then stands up from his chair and makes his way toward the other end of the tent. He barely makes it halfway before getting sidetracked and drifting over toward his partner. Phillip notices, waves to the acrobat, and leads his horse to the edge of the ring. It peeks its head over his shoulder; P.T. absently strokes its nose.

"Feeling alright?" he asks Phillip.

"I'm fine," Phillip assures him. "Actually, this is helping. It's a nice distraction."

P.T. doesn't look convinced. "Well, don't wear yourself out."

"I'm okay, Phin, really. The little one's taking its time getting here." Phillip fusses with the horse's halter while he talks. His face is slightly flushed and there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but that could just be from exertion. "Besides, Charity said I'd know when it gets more serious..."

"Excuses, excuses," teases Barnum. Phillip arches an eyebrow at him. "Just take care of yourself, alright?" This earns him a smile, at least, as he walks away. But he still worries.

 

* * *

 

So O'Malley sets up the CLOSED sign. Everyone hangs up their costumes and changes into their regular clothes (with the exception of Anne and W.D., who take over the main ring to practice a new routine). The rain lets up for all of ten minutes, before redoubling its efforts to drown the place. The tent continues to leak; buckets are put out to catch the drops. Tom and P.T. finish their game of Whist (Tom loses), and move on to playing Snap.

And it's still only mid-morning.

Much to Tom's delight, P.T. loses the game of Snap rather badly. They go their separate ways after that -- Tom wanders off for a nap, and P.T. goes to finish up some bookkeeping. Phillip has made himself scarce since he finished training some hours ago; according to Constantine, he's helping Lettie mend costumes. P.T. resists the urge to check up on him and buries himself in his work instead. Phillip's a grown man, he can take care of himself.

Time hurries by. P.T. rather enjoys bookkeeping. It's reassuringly straightforward, and the equations make it hard to think of anything else. Helps to keep the worrying at bay. In fact, between the work and the sound of the rain, he almost forgets that this isn't a normal day.

" _There_ you are. I've been looking for you."

P.T. looks over his shoulder. There's Phillip, with his sleeves rolled up and his tie draped around his neck -- more casual than most people will ever see him -- making his way toward him. He sets down his pen.

"Well, you found me. What's this I hear about you mending costumes?" he teases.

"Just killing time," Phillip replies. "And Lettie needed another pair of hands. I only jabbed myself twice, though. She says I'm improving." he holds out his hands with a smirk and sure enough, his right thumb and index finger are loosely bandaged. P.T. laughs lightly. Then Phillip pulls up a chair and lowers himself into it with a soft grunt of discomfort. For a moment, he keeps himself very still, breathing slowly and deliberately. When he's relaxed enough to speak again, his voice is serious and uncharacteristically small.

"Phin, how soon can O'Malley get the horses ready to go?"

Now P.T. closes his book. Phillip so rarely calls him by that name. "Shouldn't take more than a few minutes, why?"

Phillip's voice is still small. "I think it's time to go home."

 

***oooOOOooo***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, everyone. Midterm exams snuck up on me.

Phillip's favorite place in the house, by far, is the sunroom. Although it can hardly be called a sunroom today, it's been his little sanctuary ever since he moved in with the Barnums. A place to relax, to be alone and gather his thoughts. Plus, the chairs here are all loaded with cushions. On a regular day, this makes them good for a nap; now, they're a much-needed break from the pressure buildng between his legs as his labor progresses. He's just settling into one as P.T. comes in through the door, leaving it ajar.

"Are the girls home from school?" asks Charity from the window seat.

"Home, and already playing upstairs." says P.T.

A movement at the doorway catches Phillip's eye; glancing toward it, he sees Helen and Caroline's curious faces peeking through. He feigns relief and says, just loud enough for them to hear, "Is  _that_ what that sound was? I thought there were wild horses loose in the house!"

A volley of giggles erupts from behind the door. Phillip cracks a grin, but Charity doesn't look quite so pleased. She crosses the room, gently chiding the girls to go upstairs and  _stay there,_ and closes the door. But as she walks back across the room, she smiles. "Wild horses?"

"They were just curious," Phillip shrugs. Then he scoots forward. The pressure is just too much to take after a while, even in these chairs; time to walk around.

He feels fifty pounds heavier as soon as he stands up. Charity extends her hand, and he gladly takes it. She's deceptively strong; when he leans on her without thinking, she shifts her weight to support most of his. Then they sway a little to find their balance, and it falls into a rhythm. Charity smiles again, teasing gently: "May I have this dance?"

Phillip huffs out a weak laugh. He's so  _tired._ Another cramp curls up around his belly, tries to drag him down to the floor. But Charity's still holding him, keeping him anchored and upright. And now P.T. appears behind him to provide a counterpoint; Phillip's dimly aware of his partner's hands on his back, kneading tension out of the muscles.

"Easy," Charity murmurs. "Try to relax. The harder you fight it, the more it hurts. Trust me, I know," she adds in an undertone, as though telling a secret. Phillip tries, but all his muscles are too tight to relax. He barely remembers to keep swaying. When it ends, and he's finally able to take a proper breath, the first thing he does is swear. Charity laughs lightly.

"I think," says P.T. softly, "It might be time for one of us to go and collect the midwife."

Charity looks at Phillip, then at her husband. Then she gives Phillip's hand a gentle squeeze and pulls away. "I'll go. You stay with him." P.T. thanks her as her boots click away across the room, then she's gone. Phillip turns around so he can hang onto P.T. instead. He's still hurting; that's new. The sound of the rain creeps back in as they continue to sway.

"You alright?" P.T. asks eventually.

Phillip shakes his head. "Hurts," is all he can say at first. Then, "There's so much pressure. They're worse when I'm standing." he can almost feel the baby's head now, lodged in his hips. He thinks he might burst.

"Do you want to move to the bedroom?"

This time he nods. "I think so." as they turn and start to walk, he's struck by how ridiculous this whole thing feels: he can't sit down because it hurts too much, but standing up makes everything worse. He huffs another weak laugh, but there's no humor in it.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, I --" Phillip begins, and doesn't get much further. A contraction hits without warning and pulls him under; he can feel his knees start to buckle. Thankfully, P.T. is quick to react, and catches him before he can fall. So he crouches down instead of landing on his ass. But it's no more dignified and no less painful. P.T. helps him up once he's able to stand again, and they continue on their way.

" _God,_ what I wouldn't give for a glass of whiskey right now," Phillip mutters. His partner smirks.

"I like that idea. But not quite yet." he shuts the sunroom door after them, muting the sound of the rain. The place seems eerily quiet without it. As they begin to make their way across the house, P.T. muses, "You know...when I met you outside that theater, I never would have imagined that we'd end up here."

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"Flatterer."

Phillip snorts with amusement. "I was being serious."

"I know." P.T. stops to plant a kiss on Phillip's temple. "So was I."

 

***°°•••°°***


	3. Chapter 3

The rain stopped just before sundown. The clouds hung around for a while after that, but there are stars coming out now as the sky darkens: Mercury is skulking along the horizon, Venus and Jupiter above it trying to outshine each other, and the constellation of Orion further up. They're beautiful on their own, but when seen from inside, with the lamps burning down and the fire banked to glowing coals, even more so. It lends the whole scene a feeling of much-needed calm.

The room may be quiet, but the air practically hums with tension. And it's all centered around one thing: a little C-shaped stool by the foot of the bed. Three chairs sit around it -- one close behind, occupied by P.T., one to the side, occupied by Charity, and one in front, occupied by the midwife. And then there's Phillip, seated on the stool itself with his head lolled back onto P.T.'s shoulder. He's dressed in nothing but an undershirt now, stretched tight over his belly. Between that and the straggly, sweat-damp hair, it's the most bedraggled he's been in a long time. He'd be annoyed if he had the brain cells left to care about it. As it is, he's got other things on his mind. He's been in this last stage of his labor for half an hour; it's the only part of the whole day that's gone smoothly.

"Careful, Phillip. Ease up a little. Baby's working hard, too, you just have to help it along."

The midwife is a small woman with a kind face who looks about as old as time itself. She's been nothing but patient since she arrived, and hasn't so much as batted an eye at the trio's relationship. Nothing seems to faze her. She gives Phillip's knee a gentle pat to bring him back to the present. "Come on, love, pace yourself."

Phillip leans back into his partner. Absurdly, all he wants right now is a nap. Just to lie down somewhere and be unconscious for a while. He's never been so exhausted. But at the same time, his nerves are on fire. Every part of him is focused on that knot of heat and weight and pressure between his legs that's threatening to split him open. As he pushes again he can feel it move down, stretching and stretching but he's not even crowning yet. Something behind his navel gives way with a  _pop_ like a rubber band snapping, and a rush of fluid spills onto the towels between his feet. It gives him a few moments' respite, but the next wave is a completely different beast. It hits him like a punch to the gut and he just barely remembers himself in time to bear down. Pushing provides some relief, but not enough.

There are hands on either side of his belly, he realizes. And a voice is saying his name. He looks around. The hands belong to P.T.; the voice is Charity's.

"Still with us?" she asks.

What he wants to say is  _barely._ What comes out instead is a rather feeble-sounding "I'm tired." it feels a little ridiculous -- of course he's tired, so are they -- but it seemed necessary to say.

"I would be astonished if you weren't," P.T. gently teases. Phillip doesn't have the energy to respond. Charity plants a kiss on his forehead as the urge to push wells up again, and that and P.T.'s hands on his belly keep him centered. Something's different this time. It breaks his concentration and he leans forward just a little, just enough to touch --

"Oh my god." a startled laugh escapes him. He has just enough time before the contraction ends to trace the edges of the baby's head, then he flops back against his partner. "I can feel it." he can see P.T.'s smile in his peripherals, and he's grinning too, but not for long; there's more movement, and this time it burns.

"It's coming. Keep pushing as long as you can." the midwife's voice sounds far away. She's doing something between his legs that he can't quite see, but he can sure as hell feel it. That knot of pressure is now a boulder and if it doesn't split him open, it's going to turn him inside out. He presses himself back into P.T., hard, as though trying to get away from it. Now that his concentration's been broken, he's acutely aware of everything that's going on. And he can  _feel_ everything. It's overwhelming. When he gathers himself up to push again, the burning feeling takes center stage, and he panics in spite of himself.

_"Get it out, get it out, please--"_

"I can't do this for you," says the midwife, still unflappably calm. "And you're doing an excellent job all by yourself. One big push for the head, then you can rest a minute."

One more. He can do that much. Phillip moans into the contraction. It helps, somehow. He's bearing down before he even realizes it. The burning peaks and peaks and then subsides a little, leaving him to try and regroup. But he doesn't want to rest. If it's almost over, he'd rather sprint to the finish line than walk. It feels like the moments before a show, when he's just about to go onstage. Excitement, anticipation, a little fear. And he deals with that feeling the same way he does onstage: by outrunning it. He dials all his attention into that boulder between his legs and pushes again, digging his feet into the carpet as the burning intensifies. It spikes, making him gasp and breaking his concentration again, then it's gone. And the midwife is smiling, so he must have done something right.

"Very good. One more, now."

Charity takes his hand in hers. He screws his eyes shut and pushes until he has to come up for air, takes a breath, and is about to do it again when he hears P.T. There's a smile in his partner's voice, but his ears are ringing too loudly to make out the words. And then there's a weight on his stomach. His eyes fly open and there's his baby: purplish-gray, wrinkled as a little walnut, and absolutely perfect. He cuddles it to his chest. The room is still quiet, like the house itself is holding its breath.

"It's a girl," he says lamely. The baby starts to cry a moment later, and the spell is broken. P.T. relaxes behind him; Charity presses a kiss or two or three to his face and neck; the midwife's face breaks into a smile that could light up the entire house. Phillip barely registers any of it. All he wants to do now is get out of this damn chair, curl up in bed and hold his baby. But instead he settles for leaning --  _melting_ _\--_ back into P.T. and relaxing for the first time in nearly twenty hours. He and Charity and P.T. and the baby are their own little microcosm, the four of them, and he never wants to leave.

 

****°°•••°°****

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story, please leave a comment -- I'd love to hear from you!


End file.
